


Safe Haven.

by Michaelssw0rd



Category: Person of Interest (TV)
Genre: Chronic Pain, Fluff, Hurt/Comfort, M/M, Post-Traumatic Stress Disorder - PTSD, Pre-Slash, Whump, harold whump
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2017-12-18
Updated: 2017-12-18
Packaged: 2019-02-16 16:06:08
Rating: General Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 3,613
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/13057419
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Michaelssw0rd/pseuds/Michaelssw0rd
Summary: Set in the start of Season two, between E02- Bad Code and E03- Masquerade.After John rescues Harold from Root, he notices that Harold is behaving oddly and seems to be in pain. He wants to help, if only Harold would stop being stubborn and let him.





	Safe Haven.

**Author's Note:**

  * For [talkingtothesky](https://archiveofourown.org/users/talkingtothesky/gifts).



> HAPPY BIRTHDAY SKY!! ♥  
> One of the best thing that has happened to me because of joining this fandom is getting to know you... You're sweet and lovely, and so very smart, a BRILLIANT writer and an even awesomer friend.  
> I love you.  
> I hope you're having a nice birthday, and that you have a very nice year where all your plans work out and you achieve all your goals and there is lots and lots of happiness. 
> 
> And being your friend, here have one of your fav things: Harold Whump!

It took John three days to notice that Harold was in pain.

That wasn’t quite right. John knew that Harold was always in pain; that his body was an aching reminder of all it had gone through, never letting him forget. So it was probably more accurate to say that it took three days for Harold’s resolve to crack enough that John could _see_ the pain.

He had been so immersed in trying to find out who wanted to kill Sofia Campos, while at the same time trying to save her from herself, that it took him by surprise and froze him in his tracks when he saw it: the grimace of pain. Harold had thought he was alone when John got back from handing off Sofia’s boyfriend to the authorities, and had let his guard down, just in time for John to get a glimpse at his inner turmoil.

In response, John had dragged Harold away from the library for a much needed beer, hoping that it would loosen him up and maybe make him talk to John. The plan didn’t work because Harold chose to eat at his favorite restaurant instead, regaling John with details of the exquisite way the chef of this establishment prepared their meat.

John leaned back in his chair, his worries and tiredness momentarily forgotten, as he watched Harold talk animatedly. He swirled the wine in his glass, taking a sip to hide the smile growing on his face.

“Find anything amusing Mr. Reese?” Harold raised his eyebrows, catching him.

John straightened in his chair, a picture of innocence, and took another forkful of the food. “I was just thinking that this rib-eye is delicious.”

“… but?” Harold knew him too well.

“But I still think beer would’ve been a better idea, for, you know, unwinding. This place doesn’t exactly scream relaxation.”

“Nonsense.” Harold waved his hand, blinking. “I fail to see how the noisy establishment that you no doubt was planning to visit would’ve been better than this, and anyway, wine is infinitely more refined than-“

John stopped listening again, not interested in specifics, but avidly watching the play of emotions and expressions on his face, the cadence of his voice, letting it wash away the lingering anxiety of the past few days. For a while, he had been afraid he would never have this again, and had wondered if life was worth going on without it.

“Where to now?” John asked as they settled in the car after dinner.

“Just drop us at the library. We will go from there.” Harold glanced at bear sitting on the back seat, smiling slightly, ever secretive of the location of his home.

“You sure?” John teased as he started the car. “It’s not safe to walk alone at night. Anything can happen.”

He wasn’t expecting Harold to flinch, and he mentally cursed himself for saying something like that so soon after… everything. “The library will be fine,” Harold repeated himself, and John refrained from commenting again.

When they stopped at the library, sudden warning bells started ringing in John’s ears, telling him something was wrong. When Harold stepped out of the car, he winced visibly, reminding John of what had prompted this venture in the first place.

“Harold,” he called out before he could stop himself.

Harold turned around, looking at him questioningly. “You haven’t been sleeping at the library all this time, have you?” In response, Harold just raised his eyebrows in his disdain, his expressions clearly showing how absurd he thought John’s question was. “Of course you haven’t.” John shook his head, sheepish, before giving Harold one last look and driving off. He could still see Harold and bear standing outside the library when he turned the corner, and they vanished from sight.

* * *

 

In the morning, he found Harold sitting at his usual spot, typing away and talking about there being no new number. It was just like it used to be and John quickly fell into the routine. Halfway through the day, when John returned from running an errand, he caught Harold clenching and unclenching his bandaged hand subconsciously. Without thinking about it, John reached out, intending to inspect the wound and change it’s dressing.

Harold jerked his hand away, shooting up from the chair and clutching it against his chest.

“Wha—“

John stared, open mouthed. Harold was standing with his back against the wall, watching John with wide, scared eyes, and taking deep shallow breaths.

“It’s alright Harold. It’s just me.” John tried to instill as much calm in his voice as possible, recognizing panic when he saw it.

“Mr. Reese?” Harold questioned, swallowing wetly. “I’m sorry. I don’t know what came over me. I must’ve—“

“I understand.” He hated the still lingering look of fear in Harold’s eyes, so he shrugged his shoulders and forced his lips to form a smirk. “You do always tell me to knock, it’s my fault for never listening.”

Harold huffed a laugh, and limped back to his chair. John moved away, giving Harold his space, but he couldn’t help noticing the way Harold lowered himself into the chair, his movements slow and calculated, and stiffer than usual. His face though, betrayed no trace of any discomfort.

“Finch… Are you sure you’re okay?” He couldn’t help asking after a while.

Harold looked at him over the top of his glasses. “I am perfectly fine.”

John tried to smile, hoping Harold was right. Somehow, he couldn’t quite believe him.

* * *

 

It soon became clear that Harold was most definitely not fine. His limp was more pronounced than ever, and even he couldn’t control the way his face twisted in pain every time he got up from the chair. His eyes had deep dark circles under them, and John could see how pale his face was, the sweat beading at his forehead while he typed on the keyboard.

“Harold…” He rushed forward when Harold got up from his chair and swayed dangerously. Harold straightened himself before John could touch him, looking at him sternly.

“I am quite okay, Mr. Reese.”

“No you’re not.” John couldn’t keep the the accusation out of his voice.

“Excuse me?”

“I said, you are not okay. You promised you would never lie to me… what happened to that?”

“I hardly think…” He trailed off when he chanced a glance at John’s face. John didn’t know what Harold saw there, but his expressions softened. “It can’t be helped. But it’s not the worst I have ever experienced.”

It was hardly a comforting thought. John itched to do something, to ask for clarification. Instead, he just placed a hand on Harold’s arm, his eyes earnest. “Is there something I can do to help?”

Harold smiled at him, soft, and patted his hand. “You already are.”

* * *

Two days later he came to the library and found Harold sleeping at the desk. That in itself wasn’t a surprise, but the cry he emitted when he straightened after waking up _was._

John immediately hurried to his side, and after making sure that Harold wasn’t in any immediate danger, he turned around and started opening every drawer he could reach. It took Harold a few moments to wake up fully, squinting at his surroundings. He must’ve noticed John’s single minded search because he asked.

“Mr. Reese, what are you doing?” Even pain lulled, his voice was laced with pain, and John grit his teeth.

“Where do you keep them?”

“What?” Harold sounded baffled.

“Your medicine!” John looked at Harold then, and noticed the moment his face closed off.

John sighed in frustration. He knew Harold was a private person, and did not like to be reminded of his injuries, but this was ridiculous. He was obviously suffering, and probably wouldn’t be able to move from that chair for a while without taking something for the pain. And yet he refused to help John help him. He opened the last drawer in the room, rummaging in it and coming empty.

John took a deep breath. He would just have to look elsewhere. He made a move towards the shelves when Harold’s quiet voice stopped him.

“John.”

He paused. Harold almost never called him that, and to do so now must be important. Slowly, he turned around to look at him, but Harold’s eyes were downcast.

“It isn’t here.” He looked up at John, his eyes vulnerable. “The medicine. I don’t keep it here.”

John nodded tightly. “Okay. If you tell me what you need, I will just go and--”

“No.” Harold cut him off mid-sentence. “No. I don’t need it.”

John scoffed disbelievingly. “You don’t… Finch you obviously—“

Harold raised his hand, stopping John’s rant before it began. “I don’t want it,” he spoke softly, and if John wasn’t so attuned to him, he might’ve missed it.

“You don’t…”

“I don’t want it.” His voice was stronger this time, if no less vulnerable.

“Why?”

Harold chewed his bottom lip, and looked down at his hand. It was the one Root had cut when she had abducted him two weeks ago. The wound had healed, leaving behind nothing but a pink healing scar. “She... When Root,” Harold swallowed, tracing the scar with his fingers. “When she took me, she kept me under a light sedative, to keep me more _amenable_.” He spit the word out in disgust. “It worked. I couldn’t anything, I couldn’t say anything, I couldn’t _think_ …”

He looked up at John then, and John’s knees felt like they would buckle at the expressions on Harold’s face. He looked like a lost child. “I wanted to make a plan, to do something to escape but my brain... it felt like it wasn’t there. It won’t work or co-operate. I felt trapped in my own body, helpless.” Harold’s lower lip was quivering, and he took a deep shaky breath, getting himself under control. He let the breath out in one long exhale and said. “But there was no pain.”

“Harold…” John knew his voice sounded as broken as his heart was.

“Even when she cut my hand, I couldn’t feel any pain. And the medicine, it would… ” Harold nodded, suddenly back to himself, controlled and so very strong. “I can’t bear the thought of being trapped like that again. No. This way is better.”

John watched in wonder, as Harold dragged himself up from his chair, barely making a noise even though his face showed how much the move cost him. He stood up, turning around to face John. John’s worry must’ve shown on his face because Harold’s face became infinitely gentle and comforting. “I will be okay, John.”

Tears stung his eyes, and he shook his head, clearing his throat against the lump that had formed there. His voice was rough with emotions when he spoke, “Is there something—“

“A cup of tea would be nice.”

John didn’t trust himself to speak again, and taking one last look at Harold’s smile- strained but genuine- he turned around and went to get Harold any measure of comfort he would allow himself.

* * *

 

It didn’t become easy, but it became routine too: watching Harold wince at random times, the grimace on his face, the rare groan or pained sigh. John tried to ignore it, but it gnawed at him, and in just a couple of days he was itching to do something to help.

He tried the little gestures like putting Harold’s cup of tea near him, refilling it often and keeping it within reach. Like making sure he got their breakfast from the place Harold liked. He coaxed Harold into walks in the afternoons, settling his hand on Harold’s back. The first time he did it, Harold had startled, but had relented and let John support him as he walked; the next time, to John’s sheer delight, Harold had leaned into the touch. One day, while Harold was otherwise occupied, John had swiped Harold’s usual uncomfortable chair with the one he had bought for him, specially designed for back support. Harold had glared at him while John pretended nothing was out of ordinary, but had eventually relented and sat down on his new chair. His involuntary sigh of relief had felt like a victory to John.

And yet, it wasn’t nearly enough. John knew Harold wasn’t sleeping well because his eyes were always tired and bloodshot. His movements were stiff, and his reflexes slow, and John knew if he didn’t relent soon and got the medical help he required, something bad would happen.

Then, after a week of silence, the numbers started coming. The first one was managed easily; it was a simple matter of a jealous lover, which John handled with Carter with Harold providing them with the information remotely. The next one, ironically, was one of a masseuse. After John had saved their Number’s life from his boss, whose money laundering business he had accidentally discovered, John had bought a gift card from their massage parlor and left it at Harold’s table.

“Really, Mr. Reese?” Harold had looked at him with such incredulousness that John couldn’t help grinning.

“I thought you could do with some loosening up.” John shrugged.

“Even if I thought it would help, the idea of exposing myself to some stranger like that is…” Harold trailed off, and then looked at John sharply. “In case you need a reminder, Mr. Reese, I am a-”

“Very private person. I know, Finch.”

Even so, John wondered what if it was only the ‘stranger’ part that Harold took issue with. If that was so, what if John was to offer himself? Would Harold be more inclined to agree to a massage if it was John giving it? John didn’t linger on the thought for long, because if he did, he knew it would become less for Harold sake, and more for John himself.

And then it happened. Harold slipped.

Harold and John made a good team, a perfect team. It was because they were in absolute synchrony, completely trusting the other to do their job well, and depending on it. So John wasn’t expecting it when Harold didn’t find out about the Russian mafia connections their Number had until it was too late. He heard Harold’s startled voice, and a barely formed apology, but he was too busy fighting off the assailants to reply.

He made it back to the library sporting a few cuts and bruises but otherwise no worse for wear. Fusco had arrived on time, and dispersed the assailants. It could’ve ended much worse. He tried to find any resentment towards Harold’s lapse in information, but all he could feel was nagging worry. Harold never missed something obvious like that.

He stopped in the doorway to the main room, looking at Harold’s back. He was sitting ramrod straight and staring into the distance. If he had noticed John’s presence, he didn’t show any sign of it, up until he said, “I almost got you killed.”

“You won’t get rid of me that easily,” John joked, pushing himself away from the doorway and closer to Harold.

“Don’t.” Harold turned around, his face stern. “Don’t be so cavalier about your life.”

John stopped. “No harm done, Finch. We have gotten into worse situations.”

“Yes,” Harold agreed. “But those situations were unavoidable. Today was a mistake on my part.”

“So what?” John moved closer, standing on opposite side of the desk and looking at Harold. “Everyone makes mistakes. It won’t happen again.”

“No. It won’t.” Harold seemed to have made a decision, because he nodded sharply, and looked down at the table. John followed his gaze and took in a startled breath. There was a glass of water and bottle of pills lying there.

“You…”

“I realize that it is imprudent to continue being afraid of drugs that are essential to keep my body functioning, and that in my recklessness, I have harmed more than just myself.”

“Fear isn’t sensible, Finch.”

“No. But I should be. So…” He looked up at John then, hesitating. “I am afraid there is a favor I must ask of you.”

“Anything.”

Harold smiled at John’s unquestioning acceptance, but it looked strained. “When she…Root. When I was with Root, after I was sedated and unable to think, she would tilt her head and look at me and,” Harold trailed off, struggling for words. “I can’t explain it, but the one feeling I remember acutely is one of being unsafe. I was laid bare, unable to defend myself. I never want to feel that unsafe again.”

“I understand if you want no one to see you like that again. If you want me to go…”

“No.” Harold shook his head, and muttered quietly. “No. I want you to stay.”

Oh.

John took a steadying breath, absorbing the meaning of the admission, and felt his heart kick in his chest, beating rapidly.

“So,” Harold looked at him again, “Will you? Stay?”

“Always, Harold.”

The smile Harold bestowed at him for this was genuine and full of warmth. “Thank you.” And then he titled the bottle to take out two pills and swallowed them, washing them down with water.

John waited a moment in breathless silence, unconsciously waiting for something to happen magically. He only snapped out of it when Harold huffed quietly and asked him about the number.

They debriefed about the mission, deliberately avoiding the topic of the drugs. John tried not to linger too long over the story once he reached the point where the mafia thugs had closed in on him, but by then John could see that Harold wasn’t really paying attention anyway. He seemed to be swaying where he was sitting, his words quiet and slurred. John had never seen him like that, and he doubted that all of this was the effect of the medicine. No, it was definitely some combination of exhaustion, lack of sleep, and sudden decrease in pain that had been Harold’s constant companion recently.

“You need to sleep.” John commented, when Harold was blinking slowly, his eyes staying closed longer than they were open.

In reply, Harold pillowed his head on his arms, and closed his eyes completely. “Harold, we need to move to a safe-house. You can’t sleep here.”

“Here’s good.” Harold mumbled, and in any other situation John would’ve found Harold’s lack of elaborate speech adorable.

“Bed would be better.”

“There’s a bed.” Harold waved vaguely towards the shelves, “back there.”

Ah. That confirmed John’s suspicion of Harold not leaving the library recently. What was he even thinking? No wonder his back was such a mess. A portable bed was no substitute for a proper one, and especially not when you were avoiding the prescribed painkillers that you desperately needed.

John wanted to argue, but he realized the window for that was already closed. Harold was breathing deeply, already asleep on the table. With a sigh- which was more relieved than frustrated because he had not seen Harold this relaxed ever since before Root took him- John stood up. He went to check in the back and found the spare room he had never noticed before. He found a queen sized portable bed, along with a rudimentary cupboard with few spare suits hanging in it, and some other necessities that Harold had stashed there. Satisfied, he came back and hovered near the desk, wondering what to do. Knowing Harold, he would prefer it if John just left him there, but it was the first peaceful sleep he was going to have in weeks, and even a less than adequate bed was better than sleeping in a chair.

Making his decision, he bent low and placed his arm under Harold’s knees, the other going around Harold’s back to support him as he pulled him up. It was a testament to how deeply asleep Harold was that he barely stirred, as John carried him in a bridal carry towards back of the library. When he pushed open the door to the spare room, Harold jostled and startled awake, grasping John’s shirt in panic. John shushed him like one would a child, and Harold mumbled, “Mr. Reese?”

“Yes. It’s me. You’re safe.”

“Safe,” Harold mumbled almost inaudibly, before drifting off again. If John’s heart wasn’t beating so loud, it would’ve melted at that, at the trust Harold was displaying towards him, willingly.

Carefully, he lowered Harold down on the bed, his chest warm with affection and constricting with some unnamed feelings, and made to pull away. Harold’s grip on his shirt tightened, his eyes opening again, and John could almost see the fear in them.

“Stay,” Harold whispered. John knew Harold didn’t know what he was asking for, that he wasn’t awake and this was just a carryover from his past trauma, but John couldn’t bear to refuse the quietly imploring eyes.

“Okay.” John muttered, as he rearranged the pillows carefully so that Harold could be as comfortable as possible. “I got you.” Shrugging off his coat, he climbed into the bed behind Harold, whose breath had already became labored in panic. He only relaxed when John settled behind him, wrapping his arm around Harold’s frame, and murmured a quiet, “You’re safe now. I got you.”

They spent the night like that, Harold sleeping peacefully, while John stayed up and kept watch, just like he had promised.

When dawn broke, the light filtering through the windows, John was surprised to find that he was sorry for the night to end. He could get used to it: to Harold sleeping in his arms, to being surrounded by Harold’s scent, to watching him in the quiet and honest moments of waking up… to keeping Harold safe.

He hoped Harold would let him.

**Author's Note:**

> My laptop is quite screwed which made this fic really difficult to write and I rushed it to finish it on time. I hope it was nice to read. If you liked it, let me know.  
> Comments are what sustains me!


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